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She leans into my touch, still trembling from the brutal worship I forced from her throat.

"What was that photograph, Luca? That woman looked like—"

"Like you," I finish for her, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. "Like your mother. But younger."

My phone vibrates again—another message from Matteo. He's waiting for my order. I check it quickly, then turn back to Bianca, decision made.

"Your mother recognized something in me that night," I say, watching her reaction carefully. "And now, Matteo is telling me that the sealed records of my mother's murder have been tampered with."

"What are you saying?" she asks, eyes searching mine.

"I'm saying," I reply, the certainty settling cold and heavy in my gut, "that your past and mine might be connected in ways neither of us understood when I claimed you that night." My grip tightens slightly. "And I'm beginning to believe that your path to my world wasn't an accident at all."

The car slows as we approach the Ravelli estate, the gates opening like jaws to receive us. In the dim light, Bianca's face is a study in shadows and vulnerability, her lips still bearing the evidence of her submission.

"Whatever connection exists," I tell her, voice low with promise and threat combined. "Whatever secrets lie in your blood or mine—it changes nothing. You're mine, Bianca. And I protect what's mine, even from the ghosts of the past."

I see resolve harden in her eyes.

Whatever the Volkovs think they know, whatever truths have been buried—we'll face them together.

Chapter Nineteen

Bianca

Thesilenceofthemansion swallows me whole.

Three hours since Luca disappeared into his study after our return from the Volkovs. Three hours of pacing our suite, the taste of him still lingering on my tongue, the memory of Demyan's cold blue eyes following me like a shadow.

I press my fingers to my lips, remembering how Luca reclaimed me in the car. The way he used me so brutally, so possessive and merciless. The way he spoke of my past, of connections neither of us understood when he first claimed me that night in the hotel. The wild look in his eyes when he mentioned his mother's murder files being tampered with.

That photograph from earlier haunts me.

The woman with my eyes, my jawline. It was my mother, but not as I've ever known her.

Marina Sutton. The woman who braided my hair and worked three jobs to keep our tiny flat. The woman who now sits in a care facility, memories slipping through her fingers like sand.

What secrets is she keeping behind those blank eyes? And why didn't I ask more questions when there were answers still available in her mind?

The bedroom feels suddenly claustrophobic, the silk sheets and designer dresses surrounding me like an elaborate cage.

I need air. Space. Answers.

I slip into the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the plush carpet Teresa insists on keeping immaculate. The corridor stretches before me, lined with doors I've never opened, rooms I've never entered.

This wing of the mansion has been my domain since my arrival. A prison with Luca as both jailer and lover.

But tonight, with the questions burning in my blood, the boundaries he's drawn seem less like protection and more like chains.

I move silently down the hall, past the usual routes I'm permitted to travel. The guards stationed at the entrance to Luca's wing nod respectfully as I pass.

They don't stop me. His wife. The woman who wears his ring, his crest, his mark on her skin.

They don't know that beneath the façade of Mrs. Ravelli, I'm still Bianca Sutton—the hotel maid with dirt under her fingernails and fire in her heart.

The one who needs to know the truth.

The main staircase curves down to the grand foyer, moonlight spilling through stained glass windows and casting colored shadows across the marble floor. At night, the Ravelli mansion takes on a different character. Less imposing fortress, more ancient temple dedicated to secretive rites.